


When I Put My Hand To The Flame

by asimaiyat



Series: She Moves In Mysterious Ways [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Angry Sex, F/M, Genderswap, Jen moriarty, Manipulation, PIV Sex, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, dubcon, genderswap for no good reason, kind of femdom, lady!moriarty, mormor, unless porn counts as a good reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimaiyat/pseuds/asimaiyat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jen can't resist provoking Seb. He's so <i>sexy</i> when he's angry. (warnings are in the tags. please proceed with caution!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Put My Hand To The Flame

Jen can barely be bothered to lift her head off the plush white couch when she hears the slam of the door and the stomp of heavy army-boot footsteps across the lounge. She imagines that she makes quite a pretty picture, her red silk shirt strategically unbuttoned under the sleek black pantsuit, Louboutin pumps dangling from her feet. Not that Sebastian’s going to appreciate the details in the state he’s clearly in.

“You could have told me,” he practically growls when he appears in front of her, shoulders squared. _God, he’s sexy when he’s angry_. She wishes they could skip the predictable dialogue and go straight to the good part.

“This is about that _girl_.” She makes a face.

“Yes. Yes it is.” He takes a step closer and then another, leaving great messy footprints behind him. She hates when he wears his boots on the carpet, and he knows it. “You could have told me what kind of game we were running.”

“I fail to see how that would have helped you to _do your job_ ,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. She doesn’t want to get angry; she wants to enjoy this flash of passion from her ever-so-disciplined Colonel. But she can’t help the vein that pulses behind her right eye when he dares to question her decision.

“It _would_ , Boss. Fuck, you can’t leave me out in the cold like that, you can’t --”

“Are you telling me what I can and can’t do?” It comes out so slow and so very quiet, practically a whisper. She could be whispering sweet nothings in his ear, if they did that.

“Right, sure I am, why not,” he replies. Another step forward, and she’s on her feet, planting one small hand against the front of his grey t-shirt. She regards her own hand critically for a moment -- she’s going to need to make a choice one of these days between manicures and nail-biting as a vice -- and then lets her eyes trail up to meet his. They’re pale blue and flashing with emotion. She doesn’t want to give him too much time to think about what those feelings mean. Instead she twists her fingers into the fabric of the t-shirt. He’s about twice her size, but she pulls him to her with the force of her personality.

He’s stooped down, his broad shoulders rounded, and she leans up on her 5-inch heels and takes a sharp nip at his lower lip, then pulls back, not breaking eye contact.

“Have I... pissed... you... off, Tiger?” she hisses, playing it up now, just to make sure that he’s still a little bit afraid of her. He really should be. She’s torn between wanting to see him back down just from this, from the knowledge that she really could do absolutely anything right now, and wanting that fury to keep simmering until he’s pounding his huge cock into her like it’s somehow possible for him to punish her that way.

“Yes, Miss, you kind’a have.” That low snarl is still there, in the back of his throat, and fuck, it’s irresistible.

“Well then.” She lets the pause stretch out _forrr-everrrrr_ , letting him feel how immobilized he is, suspended in place by someone he could easily break in half. _In more ways than one_. “Well then, handsome, why don’t you make me care about it?”

His hand rises to her shoulder and she can feel the perfect moment when he isn’t sure what’s going to happen to him if he exerts just a fraction of his strength, if it’s going to be worth the consequences. That delicious suspence hangs in the air, his broad fingers tensing ever-so against her wiry upper arm, until something clinches it and she feels the pressure all of a sudden, pushing her backwards toward the couch, stumbling on her high heels but laughing out loud, wanting to clap her hands like a little girl.

He follows her down, bracing himself over her, and there’s just a little note of oh shit in his face, a faint echo of _what have I gone and done now_ , but he doesn’t let it stop him. Oh no, he’s far too brave for that.

“Boss. I’m tired of being treated like a blunt weapon.”

“Well TOO BAD!” Jen amps up the volume with her face rather too close to his ear, knowing that she’s going to provoke him, and sure enough he’s got her pinned down, one hand grabbing her sleek ponytail. She thinks for half a second about pretending to struggle, just to fuck with him, to see what he’d do. She doesn’t want to risk him calling her bluff, though, so she reaches down and wriggles out of her trousers and her red string knickers. A small part of her mind is aware that his combat boots must be on her white suede couch _at this very moment_ , and it’s almost enough to turn her off entirely, but she shoves the thought aside as she grinds her hips against his, daring him to make the next move.

He’s inside her before she expects, she’s so damn wet from watching his little performance. (The first time they did this, she had him flat on his back with a switchblade at his throat. Not because he wasn’t willing, but because she didn’t trust him not to go too fast. She’s so delicate after all.) She wraps a hand around the back of his neck and lets him feel her ragged fingernails digging in as he fucks her into the couch, and with her other hand she reaches down and strokes her own clit, finding exactly the right pressure to relax every muscle in her body.

“Is this what you keep me around for, Boss?” he growls, right in her ear, pounding into her hard.

“Mmm, yes, among... many... other things.” She writhes under him, fingers raking through his hair, pulling him closer to her. His whole body feels white hot, always so much warmer than hers.

Sebastian grabs her by the hip and adjusts her angle, his fingers marking her pale skin. She lets out a little screech at the intensity of the impact when he’s got her like this, how perfect it is, and his low growl rumbles in her ear as he keeps going, hard and fast until her hand clamped on his neck guides him to go slower, to let her savor the last few strokes.

It’s over abruptly, like it always is with her. Jen doesn’t do denouement. She doesn’t like to be touched after she comes, her skin prickling with sensitivity and her mind scrabbling to reassert its meticulous sense of order. Usually she doesn’t even want him in the same room, wants him dressed and out before the sweat has cooled on her skin. But he keeps those pale eyes trained on hers as he dismounts her, like he’s trying to read her in what he must imagine is a moment of vulnerability, and she wants to say something cruel to break the illusion, but she doesn’t. If he’s looking for something, let him find it. Let him hold onto it for now.

He fumbles in the black crepe trousers she tossed aside until he finds her black enamel cigarette case, and hands it to her silently. She holds his gaze, one dark brow lifted, until he gets it, and reaches into the pocket of his own discarded cargo pants for his beat-up old lighter.

“If you insist,” he grumbles as he holds the lighter out to her, to the slim filterless cigarette held gently between her teeth. Dishevelled and overstimulated, still in the process of coming back to herself, she hears the dry click of the flint and watches the spark ignite between his fingers and her mouth, dying down to a dark smoulder at the end.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a muse/enabler for this fic who wishes to remain anonymous. The scenario that led to this fluffy little scene happening was "Jen uses Sebastian as a 'honey trap,' without telling him the whole plan. When the trap is sprung and his little conquest is no longer useful, he confronts her." 
> 
> Give it up for Jen Moriarty if you want to see more of her, because I could totally write more of her if people want. Concrit loved and embraced.


End file.
